


Sleep peacefully. Your face should Be serene and beautiful at all hours.

by MistressofHappyEndings



Series: Poetry in Motion [7]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: "Blue Days", Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29015772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressofHappyEndings/pseuds/MistressofHappyEndings
Summary: Everyone has "blue days."  Even Joe.
Relationships: Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolo di Genova
Series: Poetry in Motion [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1923037
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48





	Sleep peacefully. Your face should Be serene and beautiful at all hours.

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo...this took me way too long to write, and I'm not sure how I feel about it, but here you are - a little Joe whump, a little Booker comfort. Hope you enjoy!

The hammock is nestled between two large hemlocks, the trees’ leaves filtering the sunlight, creating a dapple-patterned shading over its lone occupant. There is a cool, gentle breeze blowing through the yard, enough to tickle the skin pleasantly, but not strong enough to swirl up dust or ruffle the pages of a book too distractingly. The wind chimes on the porch sound softly, a musical tinkle that together with the background noises of birds and insects, are almost mesmerizing. 

Or it would be, if Booker gave a damn about any of that right now. 

The hammock is a favorite reading spot of his, and he could usually be found lazing in its cloth confines every chance he got. Today is a perfect day to escape into a favorite book. The air is crisp with autumn’s approach, so he has brought a blanket out with him, a soft, worn thing that’s been with him for quite a while now, its familiarity a comfort. Wrapped up in the flannel warmth, fingers of one hand curved through the handle of a gently steaming mug of hot cider, his green eyes are seemingly trained on the pages of the novel he’s selected in the other hand. To anyone who didn’t know better, he looks the picture of a relaxed reader. 

But in reality, he hasn’t read a single word on a page. He is waiting. And hoping that his overture will be accepted. Because Joe is having a “blue” day, and Booker desperately wants to help him. 

All three immortal lovers have “blue” days, as they’ve dubbed them, days when everything good seems to be just beyond reach, and no amount of love and offered comfort helps. Booker has these days far more often than his lovers, but not even Joe or Nicky can escape the azure clutches of depression or anxiety. 

Each of them have different reactions to such days. 

Booker himself tends to withdraw and wander off, sometimes not returning for hours or even days, though he has been getting better about that. He doesn’t like the suppressed terror in his lovers’ eyes when he finally comes home. He is very good at disappearing when he wants to, and it worries them so much when they don’t know where he is or what he might be doing to himself with his self-destructive tendencies. He tries to confine his wandering to Vivienne’s garden these days. They know she won’t let him do anything stupid. 

On Nicky’s “blue” days, the former priest will get antagonistic, his words vicious and meant to wound, trying to provoke a fight. While Booker and Joe can usually ignore his gibes until he comes back to himself, sometimes it takes blood – usually a no-holds barred sparing match in the back yard that ends in more than a little gore – before whatever demons that haunt him on his days are finally satisfied and leave him in peace. Both Joe and Booker hate those days the most. Not because of the physical damage inflicted, easily healed, but because of the guilt that lingers in those sea glass eyes for days afterwards. Fortunately, he is the least affected of the three of them by the blues, so this is not something that happens often. 

But as bad as Nicky’s days could get, at least he has allowed Booker to be present for them and to help him through them, even if all he can provide is a steady presence or a sparring partner. 

Joe, though … Their gregarious and tactile lover, a man who can’t normally go even a few minutes without telling them how much he loves them, has to show them how beautiful he finds them with passionate kisses and lingering caresses – _that_ man grows sullen and avoids touch at all cost. He’ll be the first out of bed on these mornings when he’s usually the most reluctant of them to leave the warm comfort of the sheets. He doesn’t lean in for kisses or brush up against them in the many various ways they all tend to do, always maintaining at least a few inches between them, more if he can manage it. He wears a hoodie on days like these, hood up and front zipped to his throat, just another way to hide from any form of gentle affection from his lovers. He refuses to acknowledge his avoidant behavior and becomes even more closed off if called on it. 

There is little either he or Nicky can do for Joe when he is in this mood until he reaches out to them. Or to Nicky, rather. Joe hasn’t yet reached out to Booker for comfort on one of these bad days. Nicky is more familiar with how to treat Joe, but Booker suspects that the real reason for this is that Joe feels like he’d be burdening his younger lover with his dark mood when Booker has so many problems of his own to contend with still. 

Booker hasn’t found a way yet to explain to Joe that he’d gladly shoulder that burden, if only Joe would let him. Just as he and Nicky haven’t left him to rot in the mire of his own depression, Booker wants to help them whenever they need the support, too. As he is often reminded, they are all in this together, and he wants to do his part. 

To that end, Booker had gathered up his book and blanket and quietly announced in Joe’s presence that he would be out in the hammock should anyone need him. Nicky had given him a faint smile and a nod of acknowledgement, but Joe had continued to stare silently down into his half-empty coffee cup. Booker had slipped out the patio doors and into the hammock to wait and see if Joe would accept his invitation. 

He isn’t very good at waiting, never has been. Oh, he could focus on a task to the exclusion of everything else when the situation called for it, especially when deep in research, but waiting is much more Nicky’s forte. That’s why he’s the sniper, even though Booker’s long-range aim is nearly as good as his. The words on the pages blur before him, and he shifts restlessly in his cloth cocoon. He slides one foot to the ground and sets the hammock to rocking in an effort to channel some of that restlessness. 

One hour, two, then three, pass, and Booker reluctantly concedes defeat. Joe isn’t coming. Hopefully, he has gone to Nicky for the comfort he needs, and Booker has at least done him the favor of removing any witnesses to his perceived weakness. He sighs and closes his eyes, his book falling open over his chest. If that is the best he can do for the older man, then he would force himself to be content with that. 

He tugs at the blanket to loosen its warm grip around him and starts the laborious process of getting out of the hammock. Maybe he would go visit Vivienne for a little while, give Nicky more time to work his magic. Maybe the Genoan would even manage to coax Joe into a nap. The poor man hasn’t slept for the past two nights, he could definitely use the rest … 

A soft, distressed sound drags his attention from his circling thoughts, and he looks up. He stifles a startled gasp at the unexpected proximity of the man he’s just given up on. 

Joe stares down at him, hood up and sleeves tugged over his hands, the only part of his bare skin visible his nose and chin. Though his face is shadowed by the hood, Booker can see the wild, miserable look in those dark eyes boring into his own. Joe’s hands are clenched into fists at his sides, and his throat is working as if he is trying to speak and keeps swallowing down the words. His entire body quivers with restrained emotion. 

Booker swallows hard, then, with careful, deliberate movements, gaze never leaving the one above him, he sets aside his book and reaches for the edges of the blanket. He slowly opens the warm folds in an unspoken invitation to join him and holds his breath as he waits for Joe to decide what he wants to do. 

When they had first strung up the over-sized hammock, Booker would have placed money on the fact that there was no graceful way to get into and out of the thing, and to be fair, there have been one or two instances where they had dumped themselves and each other out onto the grass below. Today, though, Joe does the impossible and shows Booker he’s perfectly capable of climbing into an already occupied hammock and still touch the other person in it as little as possible, all without disturbing the precarious balance. 

He gingerly shifts into the space Booker has offered him, arms wrapped around his own chest and knees bent as though he wants to be curled into the fetal position but the close confines of the hammock prevent it. The top of his hooded head just barely connects with Booker’s side, and even through the dark cloth, Booker can see the strain in Joe’s neck to keep himself as far apart as he can from the younger man. Joe snatches at the blanket and wraps it tightly over and around himself, one more layer of protection from the harshness of his thoughts pressing down upon him. 

Booker stares down at the trembling, fleece-wrapped bundle next to him and feels nascent panic rise up. He’s only now realizing that, deep down, he never really expected Joe to choose him, and now, he finds himself in the bizarre position of offering comfort to man who can’t accept it. He is woefully unprepared for such responsibility. 

His instincts as a lover and a friend are screaming to reach out and hold the smaller man, to curve himself around him and show him it is just the two of them here, safe and alone together. He wants to be a steady bulwark between him and the world until Joe is ready to re-engage with it, the way he and Nicky so often do for Booker. The instinct is so strong, so necessary, that he finds his body moving without any conscious decision on his part, and he only barely halts the movement before he actually enfolds the other man close. 

It’s a good thing he finds the restraint because Joe flinches at his aborted move and tries to make himself even smaller against his side, an almost inaudible whimper escaping into the space between them. Booker feels his blood run cold at the miserable sound. The older man’s body is so tense with the conflicting needs to touch and not be touched that Booker feels the ache of it in his own muscles, but the only one who can make the choice between the two is Joe. No matter much Booker _needs_ to hold Joe, it isn’t what _Joe_ needs from him right now, of that much, at least, he can be certain. He cannot be the one to force the issue. 

At a loss at what to do, Booker casts his eyes about a little desperately in search of inspiration. They land on the book he’s been pretending to read, half-wedged between himself and Joe, and he pulls it free with slow, careful movements so as not to upset his companion any further. He gives it a considering look. Joe and Nicky both enjoy the sound of his voice. He’s lost count of the number of times they have coaxed and cajoled him into reading to them on quiet nights, curling up on either side of him like contented housecats with their heads pillowed on his chest and stomach until either they’ve drifted off to sleep or he’s finished the story. 

After a contemplative moment, Booker reaches over the side of the hammock and drops the book. It lands with a quiet thump in the grass below. As wound tight as Joe is right now, just one misspoke word could be enough to send him scrambling out of the hammock, and Booker is somehow certain that he would indeed say the wrong thing, even if he’s reading someone else’s words. 

With no better idea springing to mind, Booker silently sets the hammock back into motion, but not in the jittering pace of before when he’d been waiting for Joe. Instead, he pushes in the smooth, soothing swing that he remembers from long ago, back when his sons were small and fractious. His wife had at first been jealous of his ability to rock their children to a calm state almost every time they got fussy, but she’d soon learned to appreciate the skill and quickly handed over whichever son was screaming at the time for him to deal with. He has no idea if the same talent would work here, but it’s the only thing he can think to do at the moment, and he’ll be damned if he gives Joe a reason to regret coming to him instead of Nicky. 

As they rock, Booker tucks one hand up under his head and drapes the other low over his stomach, fingers clenching in his hair and shirt to resist the temptation to reach out to the distraught man at his side again. He fixes his gaze above them, watching the sunlight dance through the gently waving leaves, trying to find serenity in nature. Booker can’t expect Joe to relax if he is all tensed up, too. He lets himself sink into the rhythm of the breeze, the call of the birds, and creak of the hammock as it swings languidly back and forth, and eventually, his breathing grows slow and deep and his fingers relax. Almost subconsciously, he starts to hum in tandem with the rocking, a deep rumble in his chest that is more felt than heard. Booker had never been certain if it was the rocking or the rumble that soothed his sons so well, but he is willing to try anything right now. 

Back and forth, back and forth, Booker becomes so focused on the quiet creak of the hammock that he nearly misses it when it finally, mercifully, happens. Between one swing and the next, one of Joe’s fleece-shrouded hands creeps over Booker’s belly from the protection of his curled position and bumps lightly against the fingers resting there. Booker’s gaze shoots the length of his torso to where they now touch, but he makes no move himself to grasp at Joe. Instead, he waits with patient impatience as Joe bumps tentatively at him again. Seemingly satisfied with Booker’s non-reaction, the younger man watches with wide eyes as the very tips of Joe’s fingers peek out from his sleeve, and he grazes them over Booker’s fingernails in a single, barely-there arc. It’s all Booker can do to keep up the humming and the swinging as his breath is stolen from him by this one simple gesture. Joe has done much more to his body in the time they’ve been lovers, but nothing has ever felt as electrifying . . . or as humbling. 

Long minutes pass them by as they lay together like this, barely touching, until Joe slides his hand a little higher to the first joints in Booker’s fingers. He curls his fingers over the knuckles in the tiniest of tugging gestures. Praying that he’s understood the gesture correctly, Booker takes a chance and turns his palm over. He presses ever so slightly up against the fingers hovering over his. 

Joe shudders and draws a deep breath through his nose, letting it trickle out between his lips, before he hooks his cold fingers through Booker’s warmer ones and grips tightly. A minute later, the weight of Joe’s head presses into the bigger man’s side, and Booker can feel the heat of Joe’s breath through his shirt. Joe’s forehead grinds against Booker’s ribs, the grip around his fingers grows tighter, and for one long, suspended moment, the tension in his body seems, in Booker’s worried estimation, close to snapping. 

Before Booker can think of anything to do or say, another shaky sigh escapes into the scant space between them, and Joe goes completely pliant against him. A few moments later, the older man’s breathing evens out, and Booker knows that he has finally fallen asleep. 

_Merci, Dieu._ Booker closes his eyes and silently sends the gratitude skyward as he keeps the hammock in motion and the rumble steady in his chest. A shadow appears behind his closed lids as he finishes the brief but heartfelt prayer, and he cracks one eye open to find Nicky on the other side. 

He doesn’t meet Booker’s eyes at first. Instead, his gaze is fixed where the younger man’s fingertips disappear under the hem of Joe’s sleeve. Silent communication flows between the two men, a question and a reassurance, and Nicky closes his own eyes in relief. He leans over to press a thankful kiss to Booker’s forehead, not daring to disturb Joe’s fragile slumber by giving him the same, though he hovers for one indecisive moment. Forcing himself back, he slips to a seated position in the grass beside the hammock. He leans his head forward against Booker’s calf, feeling the muscle flex as he keeps the hammock in motion, and lets himself fall into the same rhythm. 

Eventually, the sun would go down, and Joe would wake up. The three of them would make their way together back into their home. Joe may or may not speak about what is troubling him, he may or may not go back to sleep later that evening, he may or may not be back to his old self in the morning. But the important thing is, he has reached out for help and accepted it when it was given. Whatever the future holds, the three of them will face it – together.


End file.
